Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (2 page)

I hurried to hold open the door as Frankie lugged the long package inside.

“It’s for you,” she panted.

“Oh.” My jaw dropped. “Wait. What’s today?”

Frankie blinked at me and frowned. “Friday.”

“Two days,” I moaned.

“It’s okay.” Frankie grabbed my hand and patted it. “You’ll be fine. Jitters?”

“Not about Pete — never. Just about the sheer enormity of the event. I need help.”

“Of course you do.”

“In the bathroom. Now. I have to try them on — and pick one.”

Frankie squealed. “Ooooo. Dresses?” She hoisted the box to her shoulder and fairly trotted to the black and white hexagon tiled ladies’ room with its mirrored panel above the sinks.

Pete and I had decided not to elope. It would have been our preference to avoid all the hoopla and hassle, but we figured we owed Platts Landing the satisfaction of a proper wedding since nearly every resident had participated in some way in getting us together.

Plus my leg had been grotesque from the through-and-through gunshot wound when Pete proposed, and I wanted to be a little more presentable for him. My thigh only aches now after a long day and has returned to its normal coloring with the exception of two dull red roundish scars that will be permanent fixtures of my decor. I hustled after Frankie.

She already had the box torn open and tissue paper strewn over the floor. She lifted the first plastic-shrouded dress from the packing material. Since the wedding was on rather short notice, in spite of not eloping, and Platts Landing is not equipped with the retail establishments necessary for all things white and lacy, I’d ordered a selection of dresses online.

Let’s just say trying on tight-fitting, multi-buttoned, itchy, tag-riddled dresses and then taking them off again is an aerobic workout. I was a sweaty mess after the first round.

“Well,” Frankie huffed with her hands on her hips. She was a disheveled as I was, and that’s hard to do. She had the dresses back on their hangers and hooked over the doors to the stalls in a sort of silk and satin lineup. “Numbers one and three are still options, I think.”

“What about number six? I like the neckline.”

Frankie shook her head so violently the helmet hair threatened to capsize. “That dress does nothing to flatter your figure.”

I took her word for it and reluctantly returned to the handicap stall to struggle back into dress number one for the start of round number two.

“Meredith?” Sheriff Marge’s voice bounced off the bathroom’s hard surfaces.

“Yeah,” I hollered. “Just a minute.”

“Heard thumps and grunts. Sounded like mortal combat in here.”

“Close enough.” I pushed the door open and held my arms away from my body like an overheated penguin. “Well?”

Frankie shook her head with pursed lips.

Sheriff Marge squinted through her reading glasses and stepped closer. “You’re not lumpy like that underneath, are you?”

I slumped. “You’re saying this dress gives me curves I don’t have?”

“In places they shouldn’t be,” Frankie said. “I’m sorry, hon. One more time. This’ll be the winner.” She handed me dress number three.

And it was. I could tell by their faces as soon as I stepped out of the stall.

“I hate to think of the last time I was that slender,” Sheriff Marge said. “Before I had babies, that’s for sure. Almost forty years ago.” She grunted and flicked a speck off her immaculate khaki uniform.

“Turn around,” Frankie ordered. “Let’s zip you up all the way.”

I sucked in my stomach to let her wrangle the zipper. “I can’t walk down the aisle with my eyes bulging,” I huffed.

“You’ll get used to it.” Frankie smoothed and patted and adjusted, then stepped back for another review.

It almost didn’t look like me in the mirror. Suddenly I appeared a whole lot like my much taller, slimmer and more elegant mother. White must work wonders on my physique. Or it could have been my overexertion flush and happy eyes.

“It’ll do.” Sheriff Marge nodded crisply and pulled a little notebook from her chest pocket. She leaned a hip against the counter, easing her weight off her healing left leg. Her bulky walking cast had to be uncomfortable, but nothing slows her down. “Now that’s settled, I heard from Bob that you had a fire this morning.”

“Barkdust, in the kitchen garden, or what will be the garden when I’m through with it.” I swiveled so Frankie could unzip me. The last thing I wanted to do was perspire in or stain the perfect dress. It was going back in the protective bag until the last minute.

“See anyone suspicious?” Sheriff Marge asked.

“There’s never anyone around that early in the morning. Why? Bob seemed to think it was spontaneous combustion.” My voice became muffled as I bent and tried to step out of the dress without tripping on the beaded folds.

“No juvenile males?”

“Just Henry, but he came to the rescue.” I peeked through the crack in the partition to see, with great satisfaction, that additional pink crept into Frankie’s cheeks again. Just the mention of his name seemed to have a tremendous effect on her. I flopped the dress over the door and wriggled into my jeans.

The dress disappeared over the side, and I heard Frankie zipping it up. “You have specific boys in mind?” she asked.

“Not keen to say — just yet,” Sheriff Marge replied. “They’re rumors until there’s evidence. Why?”

“I probably heard the same rumors.” Frankie stood on tiptoe to slip the dress back on the hanger.

Sheriff Marge sighed. “They sure picked the wrong time to dabble with this particular form of excitement. The weather’s problem enough without having kids playing with matches.”

“I heard gasoline in one case,” Frankie said.

“Hard to say. Could’ve been a spill. I’ve had a chat with the parents, so now we have to wait until it happens again.”

“But you’re expecting it.” I exited the stall and leaned against the inactive radiator to tie my shoelaces.

“I don’t put much stock in these particular parents keeping track of their offspring.”

CHAPTER 2

Saturday was a crazy blur of preparation. I packed up the extra dresses to return them; helped Harriet Tinsley, one half of the Tinsley twins and my landlords, decorate a sweet little arch her brother Herb had set up on the lawn; had about fifteen phone c
alls with Sally Levine, the pastor’s wife who was coordinating the food; and lingered over one kiss with Pete who docked his tugboat at the port just before dusk.

Then I was off for girl time at the insistence of my mother. I dragged Harriet along with me. Talk about a hen party. If you want to laugh until your sides ache, just spend a few hours getting beauty treatments with a group of energetic, experienced, survived-a-hard-life ladies.

Frankie and Sally joined us, and Barbara Segreti provided the after-hours salon space and supplies. I insisted she include herself in the pampering. Turn a bunch of girls loose with lipstick and nail polish and body scrubs and paraffin and tweezers and you’re in for an adventure.

Since we wanted the wedding to be simple and easy to plan, I wasn’t having bridesmaids. My mother would be my witness. But if I’d had a cadre of attendants like you see in the glossy magazines, these ladies would be my choice.

Barbara had the air conditioning blasting. After the hectic pace and interminable heat of the day, it felt amazing to lie back in a reclining chair with cucumber slices over my eyes and giggle at the comments swirling around the room. My other option was to turn bright red and fidget, so it was nice to hide behind the face mask and pretend I didn’t hear a few things.

Even though she’s naturally cheerful, Frankie was more bubbly than the situation warranted, and I had a pretty good idea why. I definitely needed to get to know Henry better — and soon.

I’m also working on encouraging a budding interest the Imogene Museum’s director has recently exhibited toward Barbara. Rupert Hagg is sweet and absentminded and needs a woman in his life. See — what goes around comes around, especially in Platts Landing.

I felt like a sack of Jell-O by the end of the night — so relaxed I could hardly keep my balance. Maybe I’d actually be able to sleep. I gave Mom a huge thank-you hug, promising to meet her and Alex, my stepfather, at church the next day. Then I dropped Harriet off with the same promise and drove home — to my last night alone in my fifth-wheel trailer.

Well, not really alone. My hound, Tuppence, greeted me at the door with a lazy wag and pointed glance at her empty food bowl. Wedding or not, she had her priorities.

oOo

The church was packed. I squeezed onto a pew beside Pete, joining the assembly of my favorite people — Mom and Alex, Frankie and the new addition of Henry, the Tinsley twins, Sheriff Marge — in uniform, as always.

A good turnout at
Platts Landing Bible Church is not unusual, but I had to think some of the less-frequent attendees had put in an appearance due to the festivities planned for later. Pete and I had chosen a Sunday to save families a second drive into town during the week. Might as well line up big events — Sunday morning church service and our wedding — back to back to make it easier for everyone.

After the service, Sally Levine pulled me aside for a quick status update on the food for the reception. Potlucks are carved-in-stone tradition for any sort of event in Platts Landing. There was no way we’d be able to stop people from bringing casserole dishes, crock pots and platters of brownies. Sally had taken on the monumental task of trying to prevent an epic showing of only baked beans.

“We’re going to have Jell-O salads in every color of the rainbow,” she whispered. “Green salads, pasta salads, chopped salads. Jim Carter insisted on bringing his giant barbecue — you know the one that has a hitch of its own and he tows behind his pickup — and he’ll be cooking chicken and spareribs.” She wrung her hands. “We’re going to have too much, and it’ll all sit out there in this heat. You know how this town loves their mayonnaise.”

It suddenly dawned on me why she was so worried. What was wrong with an abundance of potluck food? Food stored in less than ideal conditions for too long — patiently resting in coolers in car trunks or in crock pots plugged into all the outlets lining the church’s multipurpose room during the service — then displayed on folding tables outside on Herb and Harriet’s lawn during the wedding while the temperature soared into the high 90s.

“Tell Mort to hurry through the ceremony,” I whispered back. “Pete and I don’t mind.”

Sally squeezed my arm. “Whatever you do, make sure you and Pete don’t eat Mae Brock’s pork sausage and stuffing casserole. That stuff causes gastrointestinal distress even under the best circumstances. She crushes cornflakes on top — you’ll be able to pick it out of the lineup.” Sally flagged down a passing deacon’s wife and bustled off to attend to some other matter in her hectic morning.

I gave Pete a quick hug and fled the mingling congregants as soon as possible, straight for the Tinsleys’ farmhouse and the white dress waiting for me in an upstairs bedroom. My stomach was in no condition to handle even the thought of food.

I’d made it though the night and the church service fairly unruffled. But as the minutes ticked down to the ceremony start, my heart started fluttering faster — jumping all over the place. I pulled down the old roller shade on the window and perched on the edge of the squeaky bed draped in a garishly cheerful scrap quilt, gulping deep breaths.

Outside, car doors slammed and the chatter level picked up as people greeted each other and children worked out the wriggles caused by sitting still so long through church. I envied their freedom to turn cartwheels in the grass. Maybe I could slip out a side door and join them in the not-so-fresh, smoke-filled air. We were all going to smell as if we’d been camping by the end of the afternoon.

High heels clacked up the wood stairs, and fingernails tapped on the bedroom door. I opened it a crack.

Mom took one look at me and said, “I’ll get a cool washcloth.”

When she returned a minute later with not one, but three, soaked cloths, she said, “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m a mess.”

“Lie down.” Mom gently nudged me back on the pillows and arranged a folded washcloth on my forehead. She handed me the other two. “Stick these down your shirt. What’s the one thing that’s bothering you most? It usually helps me if I can name my worry. Is it Pete?”

I bit my lip hard. “Never. It’s me. What if I’m not good enough for this — this kind of forever?”

Mom smiled softly. “None of us are. Not even Pete, which you’ll find out soon enough. Although it’s good you think so now.” She picked up my hand, turned it over and stroked my palm. “Is that all?”

My mouth was so dry that forming words was difficult. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Think of everything Alex has done for me. I could never repay him, but it doesn’t matter. We’re together. You know where he is? Downstairs pacing in the kitchen, sweating more than you are. And why? Because he’s terrified he’s going to do something stupid like step on your dress while he walks you down the aisle.”